“Through someone who served in the same household for a time. The poor girl was frightened. She knew she might not survive the birth, and she wished the truth not to die with her.” Lady Ravenshaw held it out. “Read it yourself.”
Frances accepted the letter at last. Her fingers were steady. She was grateful for that. Whatever storm moved inside her, it had not yet reached her hands.
She unfolded the paper. The handwriting was uneven, the strokes uncertain in places, as though written in haste or distress. A smear of ink marked the upper corner. Frances lowered her gaze and read.
Dearest Andrew,
The child is near, and I am so afraid. I know all must remain hidden and that no one must know, but I cannot bear for my baby to be treated as shame itself. If anything happens to me, remember that the child has blood and claim, though I know you will not speak it aloud.
I fear what may come when I am gone.
Your loving,
Mary
Frances read it once, then again. The words did not change.
His name was clear. The ink had smudged over part of it, blurring the letters so that the shape remained legible but not clean. It might have been damaged by damp. It might have been rubbed by a careless thumb. Frances noticed it at once, but she said nothing.
For there was also the rest of it: the fear, the secrecy, the desperate attempt of a dying woman to leave some trace of truth behind her. It bore the appearance of sincerity, and sincerity, even counterfeit, had power when dressed in grief.
Lady Ravenshaw watched her closely.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
Frances folded the letter slowly. “You said the maid was in his household.”
“Yes.”
“And that she was afraid of him?”
Lady Ravenshaw hesitated by the smallest fraction. “Afraid of being abandoned and that her child would be denied.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” the viscountess conceded gently. “But fear does not always speak precisely, does it?”
Frances looked down at the folded paper in her hand. Her thoughts would not settle. They moved instead in sharp, painful flashes: Andrew holding the baby with careful tenderness, Andrew refusing to speak of the child’s mother, Andrew saying,in that controlled voice of his, that some matters could not be explained.
And then, she remembered Andrew kissing her as though she mattered. Frances closed her fingers around the letter.
“Why give this to me?” she asked. “Why not reveal it publicly?”
Lady Ravenshaw’s expression became pained. “Because there is a child involved. And because, whatever His Grace has done, I do not wish to be cruel. I came only because you deserve warning.”
“How noble.”
The words were polite enough, but something in Lady Ravenshaw’s eyes cooled.
“I understand if you resent the messenger.”
“I do not resent you,” Frances clarified. “I do not know you well enough.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Lady Ravenshaw placed a gloved hand upon Frances’s shoulder. The gesture was light, maternal, almost intimate. Frances had to prevent herself from stepping away.
“I am truly sorry,” the viscountess spoke. “But it is better that you discover this now than later, when your heart is more deeply engaged.”
Frances could not answer.
